


Because I'm Batwoman

by MorganWhoWrites



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganWhoWrites/pseuds/MorganWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tegan Kane is a twenty-something woman from an upper-middle class Brooklyn family with two loving dads, good friends, a loving girlfriend, and an extraordinary story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: August: Tegan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shirley Lee Ladd](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shirley+Lee+Ladd), [In memoriam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=In+memoriam).



Part One: August

 

TEGAN

 

            _BRB Smoke break,_ I texted by bff, stepping outside onto the patio of my home in Brooklyn. I lit up and took a drag as my phone pinged her return message.

            _‘K Teegs, don’t forget, we’re going shopping this weekend. Luv U!_

That’s Allie Hawthorne, a friend I met through my girlfriend, Ash (short for Ashley). Allie’s like a sister to me, over my actual sister, Immy, who moved upstate not too long ago. I live in the North Slope part of Park Slope, at 217 Berkeley Place with my dads, David and Erik. Erik (Daddy) is an art director and he frequently works for MoMA over in Manhattan, and David (Dad) teaches drums at the Brooklyn Conservatory of music, and between them, we can afford our apartment.

            “I do wish you’d give those awful things up, Tegan.” I turned, and there was Daddy. He’s a bit rotund, but with a soft voice that, even when he’s angry, he just will not raise. He hides a rather weak chin behind a neatly trimmed, very symmetrical beard that I love to run my fingers through. I smiled inwardly; when I first started smoking a year ago, I was nineteen, and Daddy didn't object, but he did give me a long lecture on addiction and what it could mean to me and my health down the road; he said he wanted to make sure I made this decision based on the facts and that, after what he told me, if I still wanted to smoke, he’d honor my decision. But I don’t get why Daddy got really emotional when he talked about the addictive part of smoking.

            “Hi, Daddy,” I said.

            “Hi, Kiddo.”

            “Where’s Dad?”

            “Working late again, I suppose,” Daddy said with a sigh.

            “Just us?”

            “Just us.”

            I think my parents’ marriage may be crumbling; neither Dad or Daddy has said anything, but I know, or at least, I suspect. They don’t argue around me much, but when I come home from school (I attend Brooklyn College) I can tell that they've been arguing or unhappy about something. I just wish I knew what.

            “Honey, do you mind if I invite James and Harriet over to dinner?” I shook my head, took one last drag on my cigarette and put it out in the ashtray on our patio table.

            “Thanks, baby, this is super important to work.”

           

            _Or it’s super important to combat your loneliness when Dad’s away “at work” like this_ , I wanted to say.

 

            _Ring. Ring. Ring._ “Hello?”

            “Hey gorgeous, feel like hanging out?”

            “Dinner at your place? Again?”

            “You don’t have to, Ash,” I said, maybe a little more defensively than absolutely necessary. My girlfriend laughed on the other end of the line.

            “Of course I want to,” she said, “especially if your Daddy’s cooking; now, I love my parents, but they can’t cook nearly as good as he can.”

            My stomach knotted up slightly in guilt. Both Allie and Ash came from the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood of the city, and while they were by no means without privilege, they were not in the same tax bracket as I was. Allie’s boyfriend, Peter Booth, who is from the Bronx, but is a work-study student at college and lives there during the school year, and his father was a bus driver. My point is, Ash’s mother just doesn't have the resources to cook food like Daddy does.

            “Daddy, is it okay if Ash comes over?”

            “Of course, sweetheart.”

            “Thanks. Love you.”

            I retreated up to the first floor television room to play my Playstation in anticipation of Ash’s arrival. Ash is transgender, born Ashby and lived as a male for the first 14 years of her life, before she and her mom decided that transition was a good option for her and she went on hormone blockers at 15 and has been living as a girl ever since. I came out as a lesbian in my senior year of high school, after Peter and I tried unsuccessfully at dating, and somehow managed to come out of it good friends, and then I met Ashley, as herself, at Freshmen orientation at Brooklyn College, and we kind of fell in love right there and then – okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, and she was so nervous about dating me at first, and finally told me, and told me she didn't think she would need to have bottom surgery, and would retain her “boy parts”, and I admit, I had to think that one over for one night before deciding she was too cute to not date, even with the penis. A lot of my lesbian friends from HS said that lessened my “Dyke Street Cred”, whatever the hell that is. I’ma girl who likes girls who identify as girls, that’s all; beyond that I really don’t give a shit.

            But yeah, I was talking about how I was playing video games while waiting for Ash – well, it’s her fault really; she’s totes into video games: playing them offered her an escape from the pressures and worries she had as a trans person navigating her way through a world that is so hostile towards queer youth. She got me into them and her passion for them transferred over to me.

            The doorbell rang.

            “I’ll get it!!” I hollered, hoping it was my girlfriend.

            “Oh hello, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett,” I said, seeing James and Harriet on your doorstep, “Come in.”

            “Hello, Tegan, darling,” Harriet Bennett said. The Bennetts were pretty close with Daddy; both had familial ties to Maine (Daddy jokes he’s from the Maine Kanes) and both are super into art (as am I; Art History is my major at school; I kind of want to follow in Daddy’s footsteps), but I don’t have a whole lot of fondness for Harriet; she and James are perfectly respectful of me and my dads being lesbian and gay respectively (maybe there is an argument for homosexuality being genetic! Just kidding; I’m adopted, although Immy is Dad’s daughter from another relationship) but Harriet in particular tends to condescend me for having no mother, and as Daddy’s closest female companion (oh yeah, both the Bennetts are coworkers of Daddy’s) she must therefore fill that void in my life, even if I don’t need it; Daddy has been a wonderful mother to me, even if he is a dude. I love him and Dad to Pluto and back – and since Pluto is no longer considered a planet, I figure, the distance of Pluto from Earth, relative to my love, must be a lot!

            But, I am the host's daughter, so I am to put on my good graces; I led the Bennetts down to the garden level, where the kitchen, open, spacious and modern and with gorgeous views of the patio, was located. Daddy was busy at work cooking up something that smelled vaguely Italian.  

            “Tegan, be a dear and get out the ’11 Cab,” Daddy said, and went into the sitting room just behind the kitchen, that also served as Daddy’s small wine cellar and found the 2011 Cabernet Sauvignon he asked for, brought it in and uncorked it, and took out three glasses from the cupboard.

            “Go ahead and pour yourself one, too, if you like, baby.”

            “She’s not of age!” Harriet protested.

            “For only a few more months,” Daddy responded, “and this is still my house, and she’s still under my supervision, ergo I can make sure she drinks responsibly.” He looked at me with such obvious care that my throat closed up a bit and my eyes stung.

            I chatted with Harriet and James about art and my studies while we waited for Daddy to finish the food.

            “So Tegan, are you going to be doing another internship when school resumes?” James asked me.

            “I think so; I’ve got a lecture with Professor Wilde; he usually goes for these things.”

            “William Wilde, eh? I knew his father and his uncle,” James said, “Will was never much predisposed to actually creating art himself, but he sure knows how to talk a good game, seeing his stock.”

            “I’ve heard nothing but good things about him,” I replied. Allie in particular, who is older than me by exactly a year to the day (one of the things we bonded over!), and a year ahead of me in school, always said that if she weren’t dating Peter, she’d try her luck with Professor Wilde.

            “All the same, you would have a better education if you met Albert or Jens. If you like, I can try and get you an internship at the Wilde Gallery in SoHo.”

            I said thank you, and that I would think of it, and excused myself to answer the knock at the door; this time I knew it was Ash; she always came int the garden-level door and it didn’t have a doorbell.

            “Ah, Ashley! Come on in! I don’t think you’ve met, Ashley, this is James and Harriet Bennett, two of my closest coworkers, guys, this is Ashley Robespierre, my daughter’s girlfriend, who has made my Tee happier than I can think of.”

            “Dad- _dy_!” I exclaimed.

            “What? It’s true.” We laughed.

            “Robespierre, eh? Any connection with Gèrard Robespierre, the 18th century painter?” James asked.

            “Uh…no,” Ash answered.

            “Anyway, dinner’s ready,” Daddy said. “Tegan, Ashley, help me set the table, will you, girls?”

            “So, Erik, thank you for having us,” James said, after everyone had settled down. “Where’s David?” Daddy shrugged.

            “At work,” he mumbled looking down at his braised lamb.

            “It’s a pity,” James said, “we never see him any more.”

            “Is everything all right between you two?” Harriet asked. I could see they were getting too personal for Daddy, who liked to not lean on his friends too much when it came to matters of his family life. I opened my mouth to retort, but Daddy laid a hand on me, and shook his head.

            “Didn’t you have something work-related to talk about?” Daddy asked, changing the subject.

            “Yes,” James said, taken aback, “Director John” (referring to Scott John, MoMA’s managing director and Daddy’s boss) “wants to hang a featured exhibit of Geoffrey Bellmason starting in the fall.”

            “And you object?”  
            “Not really; I mean, Bellmason’s a fine artist and all, and I like his work, but Jens Wilde is importing a collection by a Danish modern painter called Aage Thomsen, which Harriet and I, and the rest of the board, think deserves priority over the Bellmason exhibit; Americans really have never seen anything like a Thomsen before. They’re just exquisite.”

            “I’m sure they are,” Daddy said, “but Scott has a specific reason for the Bellmason. Have you seen the previews?”

            “No, I haven’t.”

            “I’ll send them to you tonight, but in the meantime, I don’t think Scott will change.”

            “Why is he so resistant to artists from overseas? We haven’t had a good international featuring since Director John took over from Director Howard Hayes.”

            “That may be, but Scott has done so much for the museum as a whole; made it much more oopen to younger people with less income, and stidents and striving to showcase American works.”

            “I just think it’s kind of cheap,” James said, “and you speak of students? Would you not argue that they would be best served by seeing the broadest possible example of modern art, from both here and abroad?”

            “I didn’t realise you were so into European modern art, James,” Daddy said, “you never lobbied this hard when Hayes tried to get the art of Allister MacDonald into a feature exhibit.” James went off into a thoughtful silence.

            “It really doesn’t matter,” Harriet said, “just speak with John, will you please? That’s all we’re asking.” Daddy nodded.

            “I meet with him tomorrow for luch. I’ll see what he has to say. Certainly, Thomsen’s works are beautiful. _Black Stripe No. 6_ reminded me so much of when I came out, and had to tell my parents.”

            “Thank you Erik,” James said. “Delicious lamb by the way.”

            “Yes,” Harriet said, “I’d love to have the recipe.”

            Daddy’s dinner parties always go like this; he and his friends talk and argue about art and then just pleasantries and compliments.

            At that moment, the door opened and Dad called out,

            “I’m home! Something smells good.” He strode over to the island where food was still waiting to be eaten. “Oh my, I’m starved! This looks so good! Hello sweet girls,” he added, kissing Ash and I on our heads, “Hi James and Harriet.”

            “Where were you, Sweetie?” Daddy asked him.

            “And Hello to you too, Mr. Grumpypants,” Dad said laughing and swooping down on Daddy and kissing him, “you wouldn’t believe the nightmare its been, orchestrating the welcome back session for the students. The faculty want to do a welcome back concert, playing selections from some of the works Davison wants the school orchestra to learn over the next semester.”

            “And that took you this long to do?” Daddy asked, his frustration audible, “when you only teach drums? It is after nine at night.”

            A cold, tense atmosphere filled the room.

            “Yes, actually, it did,” Dad said, looking hurt.

            “Um…” I interrupted, “Ash and I are finished Daddy, can we be excused?”

            “Of course you can, baby girl,” Daddy said. Ash gave her half-finished lamb a longing glance, but I grabbed her hand and led her towards the hallway staircase.

            “Well,” James said, “it’s been a pleasant evening, Erik, and nice to see you, if only for a moment, David, but Harriet and really ought to take a leaf out of your daughter’s book and head home ourselves. Tegan, let me know about my offer, okay?”

            “Yeah, I’ll call you as soon as the school year starts up again, and when I know what Professor Wilde wants of me.”

            “Okay. Try and see if he has a seminar class you can take,” James said, “he may not have much inclination to create art as I said, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t knowledgeable.”

            “What’s all this about an offer…?” Dad began, but I cut him off.

            “Ash and I’ll be in my room, Dad,” I said, “you can come up later if you like. Welcome home, by the way.”

 

My room is an absolute mess, which is too bad, really, since it’s a gorgeous room. It’s the second biggest after my parents’ room, with a closet barely big enough for all my clothes on the same side as the door, and a decorative fireplace on the opposite wall, and my bed faces the back of the house with a gorgeous fullsized window overlooking our backyard and the neighboring street. On the front side of the room is a small desk where I have a laptop computer and my schoolbooks, and where I’m writing all of this that you’re reading. Artwork, naturally, adorns my walls, a lot of them from various trips Daddy and I took together. The one over my fireplace is one of my more interesting finds, from back in June, when Daddy and I flew into Vermont, rented a car, and spent Daddy’s vacation in the countryside, doing all the things he had done as a kid; hiking, fishing, swimming and things like that; things that are harder to do in New York City. But of course, this is my mother and I, so we visited galleries and one of them happened to feature art by a New Hampshire artist called Jerry Pfohl. The one I purchased was called “Cabin in the Summer” which the curator told Daddy and me was based on a cabin the artist and his children summered at in Connecticut, but the cabin in the painting was derelict and overgrown with moss and weeds. The other Pfohl I have is called “Two Girls with a Mirror” that Ash says represents how she feels about herself as a trans person and about our relationship, where we hold up a mirror to the world, somewhat forelornly, like the girls in the painting, and are coercively there to reflect back not ourselves, but the way the individual viewer sees us; how they see Ash’s womanhood, and how our relationship is a reflection of that, and how they, like those girls in High School, saw Ash and her personhood as a reflection of mine, where I chose to date her, not because of and not in spite of, the fact that she was openly transgender.

 

I sat down on my bed, feeling kind of sad.

            “Baby, what’s wrong?” Ash asked.

            “I don’t know,” I said, feeling childish in that I could not tell her how much my dads apparent coolness to each other upset me, “I wish you didn’t have to see that….”

            “Is that common?” Ash asked me. I nodded.

            “It was frequently like that every day I came home from school last year.”

            “Are you scared they’ll break up?”

            “You’ll think I’m a child if I told you the truth!”

            “I’d still rather you told me the truth,” Ash said. She sat down beside me and cuddled me. God, that girl…had the side effect of a male socialization and she’s still the most sensitive, feeling person I know. More so than most of my girl friends. Slowly, I nodded.

            “Really though, I just wish they’d talk to me, instead of Daddy trying to pretend that everything’s fine, host parties, and Dad always burying himself in his work….”

            “You might have to initiate that conversation yourself,” Ash said.

            “Actually, she won’t have to,” Dad said from my door, “can I come in?”

            “Do you mind if Tegan walks me to the train first, Mr. Kane?”

            “Oh don’t be silly with the ‘Mr. Kane’ thing, Ashley!” Dad said laughing, “you and Tegan have been going out for a year now? You can definitely call me David now….And no, I don’t mind; I’ll wait for her.” Ash shrugged and smiled at Dad, but I knew that look: she had siphoned some of my anger from me, and now bore it against Dad. She extended her hand to me and pulled me up. I got my jacket and keys from my closet and we walked out the door. We put our arms around each other and turned left down Berkeley Place towards 8th Ave.

            It was about a three block walk on 8th, but we walked in companionable silence, just holding onto each other; there was a lot of that in our relationship. At St. Johns Place, we turned left and walked one more block to Grand Army Plaza and the train, and there, Ash spoke up.

            “I love you, baby,” she said simply.

            “I love you too.” We kissed slowly and tenderly and waved at each other as she descended into the station below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            When I got back, Dad as still waiting in my room.

            “Kid, you got to clean up,” he said, showing me an armful of pants and underwear that were spread around. I giggled. I took a moment to put some of it into my hamper, but quickly gave it up as a bad job. I sat down on my bed, moving a Batwoman comic aside.

            “So, how are you doing, kid?” I shrugged.

            “Why do you always have to work so late?” I finally asked, feeling extremely childish.

            “I have obligations,” Dad said.

            “Well duh, but how come you can’t come home and have dinner with Daddy and me? I know he didn’t invite James and Harriet over just to discuss his work.” Dad looked distinctly uncomfortable.

            “I…I don’t know, Tegan…it’s not because I don’t enjoy your company; you’re my child, and I love you so much, but I’m starting to feel…I don’t know…Daddy loves this city, he loves his job and he loves you, but I…I…” he sighed. “I heard from your sister yesterday, and she’s not doing so well – or rather, her mother isn’t, and I’ve been trying to help out when I can, and I’m trying to find them a place closer to town so that Mallory can take advantage of healthcare in the city.”

            “But why are you and Daddy so cool to each other?”

            “I don’t know if I can explain it, and even if I could, I’m not sure you would believe me; your relationship with Ashley is barely a year old, and there is still a lot of wonder in each other for you. But Daddy and I are almost 15 years together, and…”

            “That’s not long,” I said, “Ash’s parents have been together for 25.”

            “There are things…little things that make you question faithfulness.”

            “Then I don’t want to hear them.”

            “Fair enough. Well, I guess I’ll leave you in peace. I’m going to watch the news.”

            “Dad?”

            “Yeah, kid?”

            “I love you and all, but…honestly, if you and Daddy break up, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”


	2. Part One: August: David

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers! I just want to quickly apologize for not being more prompt with my updates; I've been writing a lot of my other stuffs, some of which I will probably put up here in due course. But until then, with my apologies once again, here are a few more chapters.

DAVID

 

            Did Tegan actually make a threat?! My red haired baby, actually make a threat?! Deep breaths, David; only you know her, know that she sinks that stereotype of temperamental redheads with absurd ease, given her sweet, mild temperament….

            In truth, I’m a little shaken up. That conversation didn’t go anywhere, and I doubt I consoled her any. Okay, let’s be honest; that conversation was shit. Absolute fucking shit. I went downstairs to the parlor where we had a baby grand. It was a little late to play, and the neighbors would not care for it – or me – but I went ahead and played a little bit. It always gave me peace, and helped me keep my thoughts straight.

            I love the drums, and I played in a very successful metal band for most of my adult life, and only had to give it up when I divorced Mallory and moved to New York. It was my stupidest decision, and much as I love my family, I miss being out on the road with the crew. I miss Mallory coming to shows near Philadelphia with baby Immy…hell, I sometimes miss Philly itself! I feel selfish that I don’t love my job, even though it keeps me behind the drums; I feel selfish that I don’t love New York City.

            I love the drums, but piano was my first instrument, and with the damper pedal clamped down, I play the first movement of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, and my mind goes back to 1975, playing in the parlor of our grandparents’ Wayne, PA estate to my aunt and my mother, the former who was also my teacher.

            “David is showing improvements, Johannah,” Aunt Sally would say stiffly (she was a nun and had no children of her own, nor was she as warm a person as my mother was) but you need to make sure he’s practicing every day for no fewer than four hours. More is better. Now, let me hear Marnie….”

            Marnie was my sister, and is Tegan’s middle name; I wanted it to be her first name; actually, I wanted that to be Immy’s first name, but Mallory was a very devoted Englishwoman who swore no daughter of hers would have such an American name, and when we adopted Tegan, Erik also swore that she would not have a name such as Marnie, but his reason was that he didn’t want her to think we’d named he after a TV show, and certainly we’re both fans of ‘Girls’, but Erik much more so than I am. Marnie and her boyfriend were killed when they were both 19 and rammed by a drunk driver three years before Immy was born (yes, I was a young parent).

            My father, Michael, had been an upstanding member of his community, working for my maternal grandfather, a classic Pennsylvania oil baron for most of my early childhood, and then running for mayor of Wayne on the Republican ticket. He lost, but not by much, and the same year Marnie died, he had finally won a political post in the Pennsylvania state Senate, and through it all, he was devoted to his wife and children, and had modeled very well for me what it was to be a responsible dad, and to the best of my knowledge, he never cheated on my mother.

            I’m faithful to Erik, don’t imagine I’m not, but sometimes, I seem to fall short of the ideals that my father passed on down to me.

            “Sweetheart,” Erik breaks me out of my reverie, “it’s almost eleven, you had better stop playing before the neighbors decide your head on a stake would make a good lawn ornament. Let’s go to bed.”

            We walked back upstairs into our bedroom, changed into our pajamas and brushed our teeth, all in silence; an activity that used to bring me closer to Erik, make me feel a part of something…bigger, more familial. We bonded this way, where words were not important, but our physical presence was. Now, it just felt like routine. I had witnessed Tegan and Ashley doing each other’s hair in Tegan’s bathroom that showed the two of them doing the same thing with the same result, and it knotted my throat up.

            “Ready for bed, sweetie?” Erik finally asked.

            “I’m just going to say goodnight to Tegan.”

            “I’ll join you.” We walked down the hall and knocked on her door.

            “Yeah?” She called.

            “We’re going to bed, kid.”

            “Come in, then.”

            She had changed into her pajamas too, loose fitting and comfy, with the elastic waistband turned down. Why girls these days do that, I haven’t got a clue. She’s lying on her bed, reading one of her Batwoman comics, like she always does. She loved the Bat-female comics, and has almost all of both Batwoman and Batgirl comics. I sat down beside her. She’d also showered. I loved how red her hair looked when it was damp.

            “I’m sorry about earlier,” I said, “it was not reassuring, what I said.”

            “It’s okay,” Tegan said.

            “No it’s not,” I said, “and I will try and make a better effort tomorrow….breakfast at Cousin John’s before I head to work? And I promise, with both of you here as witnesses, that I will be home for dinner tomorrow night; just the three of us.” Her smile was enough to make a stone weep.

            “I love you,” she said.

            “Tegan Marnie Kane….my lovely baby girl.” I ruffled her hair, and gave her a long, tender kiss on her forehead….maybe I hadn’t been able to name either of my girls for my sister, but Tegan still has her name, and Tegan itself is so fucking beautiful. I am so lucky, and the love between Tegan and Erik, literally the one who rescued her. Their hugs say so much, show so much passion…I think I might be crying.

 

But why?

 

Later, Erik and I hunker down in our bed, a simple, modern IKEA frame and a comfy duvet. He reads the times, while I read the latest Kazuo Ishiguro novel.

            “What did you and Tegan talk about?” Erik asked.

            “She wanted to know why you and I seem so cool towards each other,” I said sighing. Erik folded down half of the sports page.

            “I kind of wonder that too,” he said.

            “I couldn’t answer her,” I said, tears now truly forming in my eyes. Sighing, I found my bookmark and placed it in the spine. Erik gently cupped my face, bringing my eyes to meet his.

            “I wonder because I love you, whatever you do to make me worry or feel neglected,” Erik said, “that’s why it hurts; because I don’t know if I’m doing something that’s bothering you or if you’re telling the truth, or even the fact that to wonder means I might be loosing trust in you, and I don’t want to. All the same, I can wait, but I do want to hear a good explanation, and so does Tegan and we both deserve it, okay? But we can wait until you’re ready. I love you.”

            He put down his paper, turned out his bedside light, and rolled over onto his side, assuming the position he was most comfortable falling asleep in. I turned out my light and spooned him, my arms around his waist. I kissed his neck a couple of times.

            “I love you too.”


	3. Part One: August: Tegan

TEGAN

 

            Dad work me early the next morning.

            “You still want to do breakfast together, kid?”

            “Yeah…” I mumbled sleepily.

            “Okay, get ready and I’ll meet you.”

            I grabbed some nice clothes from my bureau situated across from my bed, which basically held all the stuff I couldn’t fit in my closet, and headed for my bathroom…well, it’s not mine, per se, but as it is the only other bathroom on the floor besides Dad and Daddy’s master bath, and my sister Immy isn’t around much anymore, I’ve basically taken it over. I hop in the shower and clean off and put on the clothes I selected and head downstairs to meet Dad. We walk in silence up to 7th Avenue, where Cousin John’s is, right at the intersection of 7th and Berkeley Place.

            “Can I help you?” A woman at the desk asks us.

            “I’ll have a coffee, Danish and a croissant,” Dad said. “Tegan?”

            “Three eggs over easy and a coffee,” I said.

            “Take a seat,” the hostess said, “and I’ll put that right in for you.”

            A moment later, she comes back with our coffees.

            “So, what are you going to do today?” Dad asked me.

            “I don’t know,” I said, “probably hang with either Ash or Allie.”

            “Okay,” Dad said, “how are you doing?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I’m worried about you, especially after last night, and I was so…poor at talking with you.””

            “I just don’t want anything to happen to you and your marriage to Daddy,” I said, deciding I didn’t want to fuck around Dad nervously put his hand through his hair.

            “Sometimes, baby, there is just…I don’t know what to call it…I love Daddy to be sure, and I love you absolutely, but…I’m bored, kid. I’m bored, and if our marriage does fall apart, it is not because you did anything….sometime, a couple adults just can’t work these sorts of things out and…it just collapses, and it does not reflect our love for you.”

            “You’ve given this talk before,” I said smirking. Dad looked hurt and I instantly regretted what I’d said, but all he said back to me was,

            “Yes.”

            Our conversation lulled as the waitress brought out my eggs, and I was very aware of Dad watching me as I ate. There was a sadness in his aura that I didn’t like, but also didn’t know how to respond to. My phone pinged.

            _Teegs! Peter and I want to meet up in Manhattan and stroll Broadway! Join us? Text me back and meet you at Grand Army Central in an hour._

 _Okay,_ I texted back, _see you in an hour girly!_

“Allie?” Dad asked knowingly.

            “Yeah, I said, “we’re meeting at the train in an hour.”

            “Just enough time to finish eating then?”

            “Yeah.”:

            “Immy’s coming down for three days to research the best options for care for Mallory,” Dad said. I nodded.  “What’s wrong, kid?”

            “I don’t know,” I mumbled, “I feel like you want to sometimes have your old life back.”

            “I won’t lie to you, kid, you’re partly right. Don’t ever think I don’t like being your dad, but I do miss some of the things that I had back then.”

            “And that’s why you’re bored?”

            “Yeah. I miss Mallory lot.” I nodded.

            “Well, I should probably go to the train station,” I said. Dad nodded.

            “Will you at least walk with me to the Conservatory?’

            “Okay.”

            Dad paid the  bill. And we left. My head was spinning with what he’d told me, and although I was grateful for his honesty, I just couldn’t make head or tail of my emotions and I wondered what this meant for my family. I kissed him goodbye at the conservatory and continued to walk down 7th towards the train station.

 

 

 

 

“You’re in a bit of a funk,: Allie said when I got to the station to see her. “What’s wrong Chicka?”

            “I’m just trying to understand Dad. He just admitted to me that he sometimes misses the life he used to have, before me ad Daddy.”

            “Does he ever say why??”

            “Not in any way that I can understand.”

            “Well then, thus little jaunt us just what you needed,” Allie said, and I laughed.

            Allie is a absolutely beautiful person, and mostly, its on the inside, which makes her someone you cherish. She’s thin with long brown hair and eyes, a ready smile and just ready to try and enjoy life. But I’ve known her since childhood and a part of the reason she tries to be so fun is that she grew up in a life that was not fun; her mother was not mobile; a result of having ALS, and needed a lot of care from Allie as Allie’s father had left them shortly after completing a tour of duty in Iraq. He hadn’t gotten an official PTSD diagnosis, but Allie and I suspect he probably had it.

            You could see that Allie’s mom was a nice person, and you could tell she was so incredibly sorry that she had to be so dependant on Allie, and not be Allie’s mom when she needed her. The regret in her eyes every time Allie had to help her to the toilet, or change her after a night’s rest…Allie told me once she’d watched the TV show “Skins”, and that she bawled hysterically throughout the episode “Sketch”, which follows a girl of the same nickname in a remarkably similar situation.

            “We’ll all be here for you,” Allie said as we neared the 14th Street/Union Square station. “me, Peter and certainly Ash. You know she’s been through it all, right? She’ll want to help you out, I know it.”

            “I know she will, I just don’t want to burden her, especially since she has been through it.”

            “You won’t be burdening her, Teegs; you’re her girlfriend for chrissakes! I know her, I introduced you remember?”

            “I did admit to her that I was scared they might brake up.”

            “She’ll stand by you Teegs….Now, what say you we hit up the Strand?”

            One of my favorite things about Allie is her burning live for books. It takes her hours to be done with that store and you generally have to remind her to not spend all hr money in one go.

            We ended up leaving with a few good finds; Allie had a coupe new novels to work on, and I got the latest Batgirl comic.

            “So what do you want to do now?” Allie asked.

            “Do you want to go walk around Times Square?”

            “Okay, let me text Peter and let him know what we’re doing; he’s visiting his grandmother.”

            “Okay.”

            We walked a few blocks from Strand to where we could pick up the 2 train and took that up to Times Square, and then went into Loft, where we agreed to meet Peter. Which, of course, I find hilarious, as it it's a women’s fashion store, but he’s a good sport about such things. I walked around, looking at things.

            “Does this look good?” I asked, holding up a patterned top.

            “Yeah, but we need to find you some pants that would go with that,” Allie said.

            “And when you’ve done that, do you ladies fancy a coffee?”

            “Peter!” Allie and Peter kissed.

            Peter Booth, a handsome rugged young man from the Bronx whose mother was from Puerto Rico and his father from the republic of Congo. He goes to school at Brooklyn College with Allie, Ash and me, and lives on campus during the school year, but returns to an apartment in the Bronx he shared with his parents and grandmother. He is unfailingly kind to those he likes, but he can also be really hard to deal with if he doesn’t like you, and his loyalty is matched only, I’d say, by Ash’s loyalty. We left Loft and headed down 42nd Street until we found a nice café, and got coffees. Ever the English major, Allie buried herself in the books she bought earlier at Stand.

            “So, Tegan, how are you?”

            “Oh, I’ve been fine.”

            “Don’t listen to her,” Allie said from behind her book, “her dads are hitting a rough patch and she thinks they might be breaking up.”

            “Oh thanks so much for your confidence, Al,” I said.

            “Hey, I just think you need to trust us more, Teegs. We’re your friends, and we love you something fierce.” I smiled.

            “Thanks.”

            “Have you talked with Ash about this?” Peter asked.

            “Well, your girlfriend has been pestering me to do so since we left Brooklyn this morning,” I said, “but no, we haven’t had a thorough discussion about it.” Peter nodded.

            “Guys,” I said, “can we please talk about something else? I’m just not…not ready to think about all thus right now.’

            “Of course,” Peter said, “do you know what you’re doing when school starts?”

            “Seriously, Peter, you’re thinking about that now?” Allie asked.

            “It’s only a month away,” Peter said, “far better to get that stuff out of the way now.”

            “All I know is that I want to take a class by William Wilde,” I said, “Daddy’s friends don’t seem to think as highly of him as they do his family, but I’ve only heard good things about him.”

            “His family own on of the best galleries in SoHo that’s all I know,” Peter said.

            “Daddy's friend wants to get me an internship at the gallery,” I said.

            “What did you tell him?”

            “I don’t know,” I said, “what do you two think?”

            “I wish I had someone like that, who could get me such work,” Allie said wistfully.

            “Please,” I retorted, “he’s an idiot. I don’t really like him, but Daddy does, and he is unquestionably talented.”

            “Does it pay?”

            “It’s an internship, silly; of course not.”

            “Well, if you ask me, a paying hob is the way to go,” Peter said, “I’m going to have to get into a work-study program if I want to stay in school, as Dad lost his job.”

            “I’m sorry, babe,” Allie said. Peter shrugged.

            “It’s not like we’ve ever had it easy.”

            My phone rang, interrupting things.

            “Sorry guys,” I said, “It’s Dad….Hello? Hi, Dad…no, I’m fine…I’m in Manhattan with Peter and Allie…yeah…yeah…Oh. Okay….No, no, I understand, Dad…yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine…I’m sorry too….Yeah, love you too…Yeah. Bye Dad.”

            “Guys,” I said, “can we go home?”

 


End file.
